Anticipation

    A recent NPR story about the benefits of experiences over acquisitions trumpeted an obvious fact that addicted travelers have always understood: being and doing is better than getting and having.  It’s the experiences, immersions, contacts and memories that make us rich, not the tangible accumulations. 

  Interestingly, according to the study, a generous portion of our enjoyment of an activity is credited to the anticipation of it; looking forward to something is apparently half the fun.  I know this, which is why in my Mid-West house there is a hard rule – we can’t talk about Mexico until October. 

   October is many things to us – the excitement of the new school year has become routine, but not yet drudgery; fall crisps our mornings and wilts my begonias; sweaters come out and shorts get stored; and the seasonal charter flights to Puerto Vallarta go on sale. These things collide, making our annual March retreat seem just tantalizingly at the tips of our reach, as though if I listen hard I can hear the surf crash under our balcony. And if I put my hand out just so under the palapa I can taste the salt on my tequila.  

   The wishing is tough, and although the looking ahead is sweet, we can only stand it so long, which is why there exists the Rule of October.  To harbor such desire all year long would do a disservice to my lush June flower planting fever, to the languid August afternoons floating on the hot lake, to cicada drowned evenings on the deck, when the fading September sun slants through the tall canna and crows pepper the sky.  It seems to diminish the luxurious joy I have in my daily life if I immediately start wanting to be somewhere other than my lovely home as soon as I return to it. 

   But the need to wish ourselves there is strong, and helps to resign us to the mornings to come, when I will certainly have to shovel before dawn to make carpool.  This glorious autumn will give way to dark breakfasts and bare tree limbs, and then I will ache for the smell of bougainvillea and the trill of the muffin man on the sidewalk. By January, when the light gets so weak that noon barely makes a shadow on the snow angels frozen crunchy in the yard, we will talk ourselves giddy at the dinner table, planning dinners out on new courtyards and Madonna-bus excursions to foreign neighborhoods.

     October is when we can begin again to relish the certainty that our friends will find us on the beach and the mariachi will wake us from siesta.  The fullness of daily life nudges over a bit to make room for the frizzle of anticipation from knowing that Puerto Vallarta is there waiting, welcoming, warm, and familiar.  I can do November, February, all the mean months between now and March.  Because now is October, and now I can dream.

 

There Oughta Be a Word . . .

     The English language is a beautiful and frightening thing. A few years ago the people who worry about this sort of fact noted that we now have passed the 1 million word mark. Words we understand are a smaller subset of that; if English is your first language, you probably comprehend anywhere from 20,000 to 100,000 words. What we USE, however, is an even smaller subset of those, around 10%.

      My articulate and educated husband, who also happens to have a penchant for letting you know when a word isn't used exactly properly, may have an active vocabulary of around 20,000 words, which is a lot. Children learning to speak their native language double their word bank every few months, a pace we can't possibly match as adults. The more education you have, generally the greater your range, although the most verbally poetic and expressive man I know has no formal education beyond high school - a lifetime of reading has given him word wings. Words - beautiful, specific, descriptive, long, short, pithy, and vague - are everywhere. And yet sometimes they fail me utterly.

     Why is there no word for the tangle of sensations when the first fall leaves skitter across the sidewalk, and the not-as-early sunlight slants into the still vibrant begonias, while the scent of cool nights lingers on my damp newspaper?

   Or the feeling when, while lingering over coffee after dinner out, when the perfect equilibrium between temperature and sweetness has finally been achieved, the solicitous waiter tops me off, and, although happy for the more, I rue that I will now have to start again?

    Maybe someone else knows the word for the heart pounding anxiety, tinged with pride in her and wistfulness for the safety of her cradle, that comes each time I take my teen out to practice her new driving skills.

     The ruthless sneakiness of memory is a minefield of lexical pitfalls. When I am uneasy that there is something I have forgotten, but even the shadow of what it might be lies in the unplumbed corner of my mind, there are no ways to express the almost anxiety. I need a word to sum up the rush of associations and memories that a single scent can summon, and then to describe how it is just as quickly gone, and left me with no ability to describe the whiff.  Why, for that matter, is it so hard to describe a smell? We have to associate it WITH something else; as though there are no intrinsic aromas, simply those like or contrary to others. 

     This disappointment in the language is brought on, I think, by the elegance of this season change. I am almost ready to relinquish air-conditioning, sanguine about pulling out the sweaters and leggings, anticipating my peasant cooking style of cold weather months, but still nostalgic for the wavy heat of Mid-West summer. Like so many things, the passage to fall is both so gradual as to be almost unnoticed, and yet also instant; imprisoning it in expression is like putting lightning in a jar.

     And if anyone can find the word to capture the feeling of time both firebolting past me and holding me wrapped in a perfect interval, where past present and future are all in this day, then teach it to me. Until then, I will bumble through the unutterable beauty of these moments, committing to sly memory the nuances and sharp corners, holding tight to all that is just out of my reach. 

     

The Things We Collect

         In the lobby of the public library in my neighborhood, there is a yard square glass-topped display case with the intriguing sign “Things People Collect.” It draws me every time I am there, to peek into the curious favorites of other people’s keepiness. I have dawdled over marbles in every color and pattern, vintage ceramic flower planters shaped like lambs and ponies, and a dizzying array of Pez dispensers.

       I once installed my own collection there for a smug month; miniatures from dozens of places I have visited around the world, such as a pinkie sized Eiffel Tower and Plymouth Rock as a pebble. I like my miniatures because they are, of course, small, and they remind me warmly of neat places and things we did there. Noble purposes for a collection. 

   Why we keep what we keep is a mystery. I mean collecting, not its more insistent and unwelcome cousin, hoarding, which by now has its own entry in the DSM5, and differs in many respects, including that collecting is usually by choice, not compulsion.  Not all collecting is by choice, of course. Once you admit to liking a particular category of things, mere affinity can swiftly be transformed into collecting by well-meaning friends who are relieved to have a ready gift idea. That is how my mother started her girlhood collection of kitschy salt and pepper sets, although she soon realized she liked the idea of them more than the reality. Reversing that perception took her years of disappointed birthdays. 

     Maybe we keep things that remind of us things we’ve done or places we’ve gone, like my miniatures collection. Sometimes we are drawn to things that complement our inner being. I have a friend who loves boxes; decorative, artsy, the tinier the better, and particularly those that nest. She also likes life to be nested within its lines, safely contained by rules, and to proceed in its pattern toward long-established and desirable goals.

     My husband doesn’t collect so much as he gathers. Perhaps as a hedge against the day we will run out of the skinny plastic sleeves the newspaper comes in, he will stash them in drawers for some undefined future use. He has learned to never start a sentence to me with the words “shouldn’t we keep. . .” lest he risk a withering stare and a march to the recycle bin.

    My collecting coexists uneasily alongside a frequent exhibition of Spartanism, which does not yet have its own entry in the journals, but should, under Traits All Mothers of Small Children Should Have. With Spartanism, you determinedly eject things from your life, such as the day I emptied my house of all the unconnected-to-anything cords, wires, chargers to things that no longer charge, extra long cables to a.v. equipment that doesn’t a. or v., and anything with the word coaxial in it. Although my friend Anne believes I really do still have every stitch of clothes I have ever bought since the early 80’s, I go through phases in which nothing in my or anyone else’s closet in my house is safe. I plead guilty to having pitched the paper while my husband was still reading it, and once got rid of a box of slides from my grandparents’ attic dating from the 50’s without even opening it. Oh please, you know you have one like that in the basement somewhere and just aren’t brave enough to pitch it.

    I have also deliberately sabotaged my collections, in order to keep them from growing. My last kitchen redo included a non-magnetic stainless steel refrigerator; now I have nowhere to display my hundreds of magnets, so it is OK to stop bringing them home. Some simply die a natural death; with the demise of smoking in public watering holes, no one makes matches with clever bar logos anymore. Does that make my thousands of matchbooks more or less interesting? With his transition from youthful ballcaps to nicer fedoras and brimmed hats, my husband doesn’t know what to do with his shelves of souvenir lids, but at least he is no longer compelled to buy them when we travel. 

      Maybe we collect in order to stave off the passing of time; if I have all the plastic Harpo’s cups from my sorority years, I can’t possibly be old enough to have a child looking at colleges, right?  Or to tie us to a certain time; I love using my grandmother’s china because it makes me feel her around my table, although she has been gone for decades.

    I am at the point in my life when purging is more attractive than acquiring. Unfortunately, so is my mother, and frequently her outlet is me; many the mom night when she brings another load of “my things,” which I reluctantly take, knowing these items of questionable sentiment will soon hit the Goodwill pile. I look forward to the inevitable downsizing of the house, as my clearing out will then finally have purpose and justification.

      Until then, I resolve that collecting will be as it should; narrow, focused, and only of those things meaningful and symbolic. However tempting it is to continue acquiring decorative plates for my kitchen, knowing that I now have enough is both liberating and satisfying. I will revel in the seashells I have without needing to pick up any more. I will collect experiences, and memories, and emotions; all things for which I have unlimited storage. Although I can never fit them in a display case, they will never be purged from my heart. Or have to be dusted.

The Block Kitty

          We all know the adage that it takes a village to raise a child. In this part of the neighborhood, it apparently takes a block to keep a cat.

          Over the last several months, a full grown all-over-gray cat with gorgeous green eyes has been spied in and around our Brookside area block. When I grew concerned that she was lost and couldn’t find her way home, I sent out an email for information. I got back a flood of responses from neighbors who have had their own experiences with this resourceful feline.

          At 645, the kids call her Smoky and she does NOT get along with the terrier of the house. Down at 627 she goes by Kitty Gray Gray and likes to cuddle and have her tummy rubbed. She has been seen leaping the fence in the back yards of houses backing up to the next streets, and spending lots of time on the cushions behind 609. At 628 she gets chased out by their large poodle, and across the street the 3 year old calls her Glen, his generic name for any kitty he sees. She’s been known to stroll in through the open back door at 622, and like Batman, seems to be everywhere, and yet nowhere. Here at 641 she goes by the name Cat Benatar; she has taken up more or less permanent residence on our threshold, or napping on the deck couch in the sun. Thanks to our nephew who recently visited from Hollywood and was taken with the idea of a transient pet, she also now has over 400 likes on Instagram.  She’s clearly well-fed, although no one will admit feeding her. And always up for a leg rub.

          She’s friendly, independent, and to me symbolizes some of the best things about living in this neighborhood. Close neighbors make for strong communities, and those who are willing to help tend another’s pet will also help look out for each other’s homes, families, and well-being. We are open, but responsible, and will reach out to one another. We will look for solutions, but in the meantime make sure a stray kitty doesn’t go unloved. Brad down the street summed it up by noting that after the communal cat experience, he is reassured that if any of his three little boys goes astray or “runs away from home” as only a six year old can, he will be well taken care of. Maybe not fed, but watched over.

          That’s what neighbors do. We look out for one another. Thanks, Cat Benatar, for allowing us all to be just that much more neighborly. 

From the Balcony  by Molly Williams

From the third floor balcony of the condo we rent overlooking the Playa de los Muertos,  . . . read more:

http://www.vallartatribune.com/2014/03/29/from-the-balcony/

Originally published in the Vallarta Tribune, the English language weekly in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, March 29, 2014, as part of an ongoing series of my articles.

When What Was Lost is Found

     Over a dozen years ago, for a milestone birthday, my best friend gave me an exceedingly special gift. It was a sterling silver bracelet with links of my family members' birthstones and my late-in-life baby's name spelled out in silver baby blocks. I adored it. It was my all occasion accessory which I wore with great pride.

     And then, on my next birthday, it inexplicably disappeared. Maybe the wine at dinner helped me lose track of when I last felt it on my wrist, but one minute it was there, and the next gone. I was desolate. We tore the houses where we had gone that night upside down looking for it. I pestered the restaurant for weeks asking if it had turned up. Eventually I gave up looking, but never stopped being sad about the loss.

    And then, yesterday, a surprise. It came back.
    
    A chore much put off, that of sorting through my ridiculous collection of wrapping paraphernalia in the guest closet, led to the emptying of the storage box of ribbons, bows, tissue paper and gift bags. There, at the bottom, was my dulled but still lovely family keepsake bracelet. I can only surmise that it fell into a gift bag while a present was being opened, and there laid undetected for over eleven years. I polished it and immediately began wearing it again, this time first to the jeweler for a safety clasp.
     
     Its loss and recovery made me think about the nature of that which is valuable to us. I oddly enough had the bracelet all along, there in my closet, so hadn't really lost anything of true value. But because it was lost to my wearing, and unaccounted for in my heart, I grieved.
 
    We treat many things as lost that are not. Losing faith is common, especially in times of sadness or stress, or perceived isolation from the things that make us happy. But the faith is there all along, waiting to be resurrected from the bottom of the box of unnecessary things, much like my bracelet. Regaining confidence in our spirituality ought to be as joyful as finding a piece of jewelry.

     Sometimes a dear friend will be lost to the busyness of living, which leaves us no time for long meandering phone calls catching up on each others' families. Peeking into their lives on FaceBook is no substitute for the meaningful shorthand speak that conjures decades of shared adventures and confidences. I grieve the loss of those roots in my life, but they, like the bracelet, are never gone, just waiting for me to sift through the right box of my past. Besides, I could not today be the person I am without the touch of those friends, so they will never be lost to me.

     So when lost things are "found" I will be thrilled, but they will remind me of all the remarkable things which are still a part of me, waiting to be brought back to my immediateness. That which is gone is not really, ever; it cannot be, as long as it has touched me. As long as friends, faith, love, family are still sought they are to be treasured. No matter how deep and unused the storage box.

Becalmed

And now, a few thoughts about inspiration. 

     Is distress a motivator? Is it easier to be creative under the weight of unhappiness, anxiety, or that nibbling whisper of self-doubt?

     Is happiness incompatible with bursts of productivity? That doesn't seem likely, and yet must be the explanation for my lack of output in the recent weeks. I have been blessed with some of the most relaxing, stress-free times of my life lately, in which I am released from the vague, non-specific apprehension which habitually hovers at the periphery of my consciousness. That nearly perfect state which led even my husband to note that he thought I was happier than I had been in a long time. I must agree, and don't take this gift of peace of mind lightly. This time was reserved for my opportunity to delve down a path of career diversion, to see whether any other than me is interested in anything I have to write. So why is it so hard?

    Severe pressure results in flawless diamonds; war produces timeless literature; heartbreak yields transcendent poetry; misery and madness gave us Edgar Allen Poe, among others. So what does contentedness grant? Rainbows and unicorns do not make for compelling reading. No one wants to peek inside a happy life - it's the challenges that bring out our inner schadenfreude. Makes us feel better, does it not, when we aren't the only unhappy ones?
     
     The challenge of this time will be to translate my comfort level into strength. To take power from my completeness, and propel it into creativity. This is my commitment to mobilize domestic serenity into professional satisfaction. I will do my best to make it entertaining. Maybe not a diamond; but better than brass.
     

Bring it on, Mother Nature

     Way up on my list of things I inexplicably love is a nature-induced slow down. Probably a hangover from the grade school elation a snow day would bring, but as an adult there is nothing better than being forced into idleness by an event outside of your control. It's the idea that you WOULD have gotten everything on your list done, but just couldn't because the plows didn't hit your street and the courthouse is closed anyway. The day stretches luxuriously in front of you; there is enough food in the fridge, throws on the sofa, and movies on the DVR; ah, glorious snow day!

     Sometimes at the lake the summer storms blow in from the west with such alacrity and darkness that you can't prudently drive home into it, or here on the plains the rains come sideways so there is no sense in trying to leave the restaurant until at least another round, or the ice covers everything with a sheen so treacherous you can only stay home and inside, and if your friends are stuck with you all the better. Once a decade ago the ice storms downed tree branches by the yards full, crushing patio furniture and ripping power lines off their poles; electricity was off for over a week, meaning no school, no work, no heat for many. My house stayed warm, through a combination of gas heat and improvised furnace modifications, and we bravely cooked up the freezer goodies that wouldn't be good in another two days using natural gas and candlelight. Family and friends stayed for days while the perilous outside world was off limits. It felt like we had escaped our everyday lives for a cocoon of slow, old-fashioned self-reliance. Knowing it would be temporary helped, but for a few days we entertained ourselves with piano and board games, reading and talking. The outside world felt distant and false.

     I like things to be in order, and with predictability; some less concerned about tact might call me a control freak. It must be that desire for structure that makes me contrarily love a snow day - I am forced to sit back and chill, let Mother Nature do her deeds, and there is nothing I can do about it. Then I feel free to let go of my needs in favor of something looser and bigger than me. I can enjoy my family safe in my warm home, and revel in this rare ability to linger in the moment with them.

     This week my mid-west city is staring down the barrel of a snow storm we have been spared thus far this winter. I have gone to the store, spread ice melt on the sidewalks, checked the candles and my calendar, and tamped down my anxiety about school closings. The weather gods will have their way with us, and I for one will revel in it.

From the Audience

     There's something horribly unnerving about watching your child perform. I was always so terrified of being in front of an audience that even today I can taste the stage fright. Merely presenting in class froze me. No way could I have produced a memorized line or recreated dance steps for a crowd. As a young careerist I deliberately chose a position within the law that required me to be "on" in front of a live courtroom day in and day out, with little advance preparation. I was a courtroom prosecutor, for a busy municipal court in a large urban environment. Two years of that made me able to think, speak, argue and win on my feet. Eight years of every day on my feet in front of four different classes of junior high kids added to my spontaneity. So today, I am less nervous about public speaking or performing than many adults, but when my daughter did it? I was right back in that grade school knee-knocking stammering gibberish mode. 

     This last weekend she performed a small role and danced and sang in the chorus of her high school's sold out and very well received musical. For weeks I had been nervous for her, and at dress rehearsal I was a mess.  But not her. From her first step onto the stage, I knew she was going to be fine. She danced flawlessly, spoke her lines dramatically and with perfect inflection, and sang so clearly I could pick out her voice. All with excitement, electricity, and the sort of glow that makes the audience pick her out of the crowd on stage.  

    It's that moment when the notion that your child isn't you is drilled home.  

    I know she is her own person, and has been since her first sour squint up at me, but moms can fool themselves that there is a degree of control over their child's personality makeup. We want to believe that this is our chance to right wrongs we made, to make different choices than we did, to somehow create in our child a better, less flawed version of ourselves, one that will practice the piano without being nagged, or will know the secrets to being the favorite at the lunch table, or will be neither queen bee nor bullied by one. Oh to have the chance to do junior high again knowing what I know now! I would ignore the silly girls who bloomed early and ended up worn out by college, be nicer to the boys who could barely work up the nerve to meet my eyes but turned out to be kind and interesting men, and pay attention in history, because, man! That stuff is really interesting!  And if I could just tell her all this - if only she could learn it from me -  I am sure she would not have to relearn it herself, right? Yea, no. 

    Hopefully I can make the learning as free from tears as possible, but if not I will be here to wipe them away.  Watching her on stage I certainly needed someone to wipe mine. The vicarious joy of her performance was only part of it. The swell of emotion was mostly from the idea that she is hers, not mine; she is the captain of that bold ship on seas I wish I could chart, but I know I must be content with merely offering a map. Knowing my daughter, she will smile sweetly, say "Thanks, mom," and then set it down somewhere forgotten like the shoes she just took off.  And she will be fine. Bold, dramatic, compassionate, funny, lovely. And very very fine.

Today is the day

     Today is the day I am going to start loving where I am in my life. I have always been a reasonably happy person, but for as long as I can remember that has been shadowed by what I think of as the "other shoe" syndrome; as in, when is it going to drop and change everything. As though I am not somehow entitled to have everything go the right way. As John Green says, life is not a wish-granting machine.

      BUT. . . . I have always been pretty cheerful, while waiting and worrying about what was going to happen next. Or whether I was good enough. Or whether I was a good mom. Or whether I would ever stop worrying about money. Or whether BLAH BLAH BLAH you get it. So today is the day I don't anymore. Worry, that is. I will stay cheerful.  I will also start accepting whatever I am given and being thrilled at my gifts, especially my family and my well-being, and know that this is where I am supposed to be right now.

      If it sounds like I have been sitting on a little spiritual whoopee cushion, you wouldn't be far off. I have been listening to my sister-in-law who may be the most joyful and loving person I have ever known. I have gotten my metaphorical kick in the rear and am looking around with fresh eyes. The universe is unfolding just as it should, as Max Ehrmann wrote in the Desiderata, and it is up to me to accept it, whether or not it is clear to me. I also have to believe that it holds good things for me.  So today is the first day for these things:

Acceptance of whatever is planned for me.
Understanding that I am capable of great, and good, things.
Appreciation of the beauty that is everywhere around us.

   If you would like to get your universe in line, or at least feel a tremendous lift in your spiritual possibilities, or just hear a little more about what she is all about, check out Darlene Marie at TheSoulSpeaker.com.

     For me, for today, I will love my life.

In My Life

I have a blog. I do because, well, everyone seems to, but more importantly because I like to write. The act of putting words on paper seems to fulfill their promise. In many things we envision, the potential is so much grander than the actuality, but somehow a finished written work can be better than its parts. It seems to me that in the recording of events they become more real. Not sure sometimes that I need my life to become more real, but there is room for the emotions to latch onto something permanent. Anyway, I now have a blog.

The name of my blog is In My Life, at least it is for now. It's hard to name something eponymous without sounding smug, and frankly I am not sure I nailed that. It comes from one of my favorite Beatles' songs, from the Rubber Soul album (which by the way I was too young to actually own at the time, but I often snuck into my cousin's room to stare at the album cover and try to figure out what had happened to the super cute British Invasion Beatles of 1964; who were these distorted looking ruffians? Clearly I was not yet a fan of the long-hair movement.)
     
       

There are places I remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain

All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends
I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all

In my life I have loved a great deal of things, and as the song goes, some have gone and some remain. Our consciousness retains them all, and shapes what we say and do each day based on the ways we experienced them, and the way we choose to move forward with or without them.  In the same way that the same two parents can produce children with virtually identical childhood experiences but who approach life with different attitudes, we can take the same conversation or adventure and it will become life-changing or a drag. I usually aim for the former. It makes for a busy interior life, always finding meaning and positivity in stuff that happens, but the alternative is a bit of a downer, and I have never been accused of being that. 

So what persuades a person that there are others out there just dying to look though the window of my soul? I don't really believe that, I just like to write. Maybe if you like to read, and have some time to kill, you will like In My Life. It may include the things I love: travel, family life, cooking, history, adventure, my daughter. The things I write about are necessarily shaped by the way I see the world, and the things I have done in it. It may be to your liking; sometimes it isn't even to mine. But it makes me happy, and helps hold things that are dear to me near to me. As the floppy version of the Fab Four sang, " . . . I know I'll never lose affection, For people and things that went before . . "